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No surprise there, really.
“You sure are a fan of fight clubs, huh? I bet you saw the movie a hundred times.”
“Never watched it,” he says and gets up to put it into the DVD player. “How come you don’t download movies from the internet like everyone else?”
I shrug and reach for a Kleenex to blow my nose. “I’m not that good with technology. That what you do?”
“Nah. I don’t have a TV.”
“Why not?”
“No reason. Not much time in the evenings.”
Right.
You forgot for a moment there, Pax, didn’t you? What he does for a living. Having sex with all those women who—
“Scoot over,” he says, and I blink at him, my nose buried in the handkerchief. “Scoot over.”
So I scoot over and he sits beside me, over the covers, and puts his arm around me.
Okay, rewind, play: Riot sits down on my bed, next to me, and throws his muscular, inked arm around my shoulders like that’s what we normally do in the evenings.
Curl up on my bed and watch movies. Together. Like a couple.
Oh my God. When I wake up and he’s not there I’ll die, crushed with disappointment.
That’s it, this dream wants to kill me…
***
“How’re you feeling?” A hand is stroking my hair, lightly massaging my scalp. My cheek is mashed to a muscular shoulder, my senses flooded with male spice and musk.
Riot’s. It’s his voice, his shoulder I’m resting on. His hand on my hair.
“Good. I mean, yeah...Sleepy.”
“That’s because you were asleep.” There’s a smile in his deep voice, and his fingers move to the back of my scalp, kneading.
I moan softly, pleasurable jolts running down my neck and back. “Sorry.”
“Why? I’m glad you’re resting.”
“You’re still here.”
His fingers still, then resume their movement. “Yeah. That okay?”
“It’s great. I just can’t believe you’re really here.”
A huff or snort, not sure. “Really here? What do you mean?”
“Like, I thought it was a dream.”
A beat of silence. “A dream.”
“If this is a dream, it’s nice.”
“It’s not a dream,” he says, sounding amused.
